Winds of change
by MoonWallker
Summary: What happens when a traveling warrior gets confronted by a youngling too mature for its age?


**Title: **Winds of change

**Oneshot**  
**Verse**: G1, very AU  
**Rating**: pg13  
**Characters**: Prowl and Jazz  
**Summary**: What happens when a traveling warrior gets confronted by a youngling too mature for its age?

* * *

"Train me." The silence of the night was broken and the darkness chased away by the fierce flare of optics.

Prowl stared unimpressed at the bluntness of the youngling before him, a frown growing on his features.

"No." Came his simple reply.

But the youngling was insistent, "Why not?"

Prowl twitched his wings, both exceptionally huge and stunning, designed to gain attention and represent status, "For starters, you're annoying."

The youngling snorted, "Don't give me that slag."

"Not to mention _disrespectful_." Prowl's frown deepened at the youngling's insolence. "Go away." He stepped past the small creature.

"I'll do _anything_ to prove that I am worthy. Anything."

Prowl had to wonder if he even comprehended what he was offering.

This made the Praxian mech stop. His huge sensor wings lowered. He spoke without looking back, "This is why. A mech willing to do anything… Can you even grasp what you are saying to me? Careful; say it to the wrong mecha and it will destroy you."

He watched the child trembled, small fits clenching, "I am desperate…"

Prowl turned, glaring, "So is every mech and femme on this wretched planet. This is the last time I will say this – go away." The warning was clear in his tone.

"Please…" Somehow, Prowl knew it took everything from the prideful youngling to resort to begging, "Please, train me. I've heard all of the legends about you. The great things you did. Just... give me one chance- Hey come back!"

The youngling started to run after him yet in a move that didn't even seem possible, the Praxian was behind the youngling, holding him in the air by his scurf bar. He seemed even smaller now.

The youngling wiggled, trying to turn and look at the mech, glaring at him over his shoulder, "I'm not scared." Was he trying to convince himself? The Praxian would give him credit for trying.

Prowl narrowed his optics. He could dispose of this pest here and now. One swift blow – the youngling wouldn't feel a thing; and spare him from the harshness of the world. Though, his curiosity won, "Why? Why do you wish to train? By me at that?"

The youngling tried to free himself from Prowl's grip, probably feeling undignified hanging in the air like that. When the Praxian didn't budge, the child resigned himself to answer, "I've heard legends about you. How strong you really are and what happened that made you this way… Revenge."

Prowl froze trying not to let the dark emotions engulf him and chased his daemons from the past away. This child knew _nothing_ about him.

The small youngling stopped struggling at all and simply hung there, broken, "…They killed them. Every single one of them. They killed them and thought it was a game…" Prowl felt the child shudder in revulsion and uncontained rage, "I'm going to find every single one responsible for the murder of my family and friends, my village – my home – and kill them." It was a promise; and oath. He felt the distressed field of the youngling. It was very unstable. Someone so young shouldn't feel emotions as strong as these.

What a mess.

Suddenly, the youngling 'ooffed' when Prowl unceremoniously dropped him. He had heard enough. "Revenge?" Prowl growled, his voice no longer monotone, as the first bits of worry started to creep in the child. His bravado was admirable, but the Praxian didn't have his frightening reputation for nothing.

Prowl glared down at the youngling, looking so pitiful on the ground. He resisted the urge to go and slap some sense into the kid. He could feel his own wounds from long ago start aching. "You picked the wrong reason to seek me out, child. I refuse to help you destroy whatever purity your spark still has."

"Then I'll crush it with my own two hands." He watched as the youngling picked himself from the ground, a shadow on its face, "I'll sell my soul to the Unmaker himself if it will give me what I want."

"Youngling…" Prowl warned, optics narrowed, "Tame yourself, if you know what's best."

"I _CAN'T_!" The youngling suddenly yelled, emotions Prowl hadn't felt in hundreds of vorns displayed on the child's face, "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't _breathe,_ knowing they are out there, laughing, joking – living – when those I held dear can't. It makes me sick, makes my armor craw with disgust!" He took a couple of breaths to compose himself, the Praxian staring silently at him. "Makes my spark hurt so much I want to rip it out." He whispered out.

"And you think…" Prowl started slowly, "That revenge will help? How awfully childish of you." He couldn't help but actually chuckle at the youngling naivety of how thing truly worked in this word. How this youngling reminded Prowl of himself so much it hurt to look.

"Don't mock me!"

"Oh child," Prowl started, his chuckles dying, "This isn't mockery, but pure irony!" How, he, Prowl, countless vorns ago had this very same conversation with a different mech. Only this time, he wasn't the youngling in desperation.

So be it. The Praxian would humor him.

The youngling gazed at him confused and Prowl answered, "Fine. Come with me on my travels. But-" He started before the smile truly bloomed on the child's face, "Your safety is far from guarantied. This isn't an orncare. Prepare yourself, because I will not go soft on you because of your young age."

The child was quick to blurt, "I don't care. As long as you train me…"

"Alright. But as soon as we reach the next town, we're going to an inn to take a good wash. You look like I dug you from the Lord's trash. You are not traveling with me looking like that." Plus, Prowl really needed some high grade.

The child looked ready to snarl at him. "Don't mention that bastard. I can't stand the foul taste his name leaves in my mouth."

Prowl cocked his helm to the side, interested, "Oh? Is Quickrise such a horrible designation?" But the Praxian had to agree. Even he detested hearing that wretched lord's name.

The youngling glared, "Stop it."

Prowl shook his head, "You strive for revenge, yet you can't even name out your enemy."

"He is a monster. But he is not the one I strive to kill." The child went on with a sneer, "He poisoned the lands. It's complete chaos! The mecha are getting killed, robbed and beaten to death because of him. He killed the last ruling family but the Priests do _nothing_! Because he closes their optics with credits."

Prowl stared coldly at the child, his whole being filling with dread. What future did they have when the children, their tomorrow, were already crushed like this? "You are… well informed." He placed a hand on his hip, enjoying the weight of his sword.

"No, I'm just not blind." The youngling looked at the ground, "But my creators used to tell me stories about Lord Maverick and his family. That he was a just Lord and so were his sons." Silence stretched out between them. "But that's all in the past now, right?" He looked up at Prowl, "They're all dead so it doesn't matter, right?"

The Praxian just stared at the pathetic creature before him. "What is your designation?"

"It doesn't matter." The youngling bitterly stated, "He died with the rest. I have no name."

"Oh, do you prefer I call you child then? Youngling perhaps?" The Praxian turned to leave. He heard the small footsteps behind him.

The youngling glared at Prowl, temper rising, "Whatever. Just choose something. I don't care."

The Praxian frowned. "Is revenge all that you care? Beware, or it will consume you."

"I want it to."

Prowl shuttered his optics, "You say this now… You want a new designation? Then let me give you one – Jazz."

"Jazz?" The youngling repeated, tasting the name. "Why. It's just some stupid music."

"Because it suits you." At the youngling's frown he elaborated, motioning his little companion to follow faster, "Not just some music, you obviously uneducated brat," He didn't need to look to knew he was being glared at, "But a _style_ of music – emotional, powerful, constantly shifting, changing, adapting," He looked back at the child, "Untamed."

The youngling – _Jazz_ – he had to remember that now, was very dirty. His colors perhaps were once black and white but it was hard to tell. He was covered in scrapes and dents, but other than that, he looked relatively healthy. Good. The last thing Prowl needed was a sickly youngling with an attitude. He didn't slow his big steps, causing his companion to walk faster.

"Tell me, Jazz," He felt his claws absently twitch, deciding to start his first lesson with the young one,

"Do you know the difference between revenge and justice?"

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Transformers doesn't belong to me.

**AN:** For now, this just stands as a oneshot. Lets wait and see if the muses will continue it.


End file.
